


the way the world ends

by stargirls



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Gen, Julia Burnsides Lives, Paranormal, Paranormal Investigators, anyway this is 19.5k and i've lost control of my life, it's not at all graphic and kinda skimmed over but like. better safe than sorry yfeel, the rating is for... you know ;)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-05-03 06:59:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14563530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stargirls/pseuds/stargirls
Summary: New York City is haunted. Spectres wander the streets, cult sacrifices spill blood across office building basements, and an inexplicable energy links the material world with the unseen one.Paranormal investigators Kravitz and Taako think they have their work cut out for them when a mysterious letter lands on their doorstep. But truth always comes at a price, and for the first time, it may be one they can't afford to pay.





	the way the world ends

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [of aspen crowns and catskin down](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12731541) by [lamphouse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamphouse/pseuds/lamphouse). 



> sooo... this is why i've been absent as of late. 19.5k of absolute spontaneous plotting and worldbuilding. that seems to be a running theme with me, doesn't it?
> 
> anyway, before these notes get away from me—huge, _huge_ props to author mildlydiscouraging and their absolutely brilliant writing for introducing me to 20s au hell. i hope i never leave.
> 
> buckle in, everybody, and enjoy!

It’s raining—the full, satisfying kind of rain that fills the gutters and slips off Kravitz’s shoulders in thick rivulets. Somehow he’d forgotten an umbrella. It had shaped up to be that kind of day, though; one that started with forgotten umbrellas and ended with the heavens opening up above him. In the city, as the sentiment goes, everything is walking distance, but whoever had popularized that sentiment neglected to mention what a miserable walk most of those distances would be. Particularly, Kravitz notes, when the sky is lighting up and unleashing its fury like somehow, he’s earned it.

Stepping under the overhang of their little two-story is even more of a relief than usual. He wrings out his hair, twisting the damp out of it as best he can, and then watches in dismay as a liter or so of residual rainwater drops directly onto the loose bundle of mail in front of their door. Kravitz sighs, watching his breath expand in front of him in an icy fog, and picks up the bundle with a few soaked fingers. Appeals, a couple thank-you letters, the odd report from his office. He makes a mental note of which ones look worth keeping and fumbles for his keys.

It’s only by some miracle of his peripheral, then, does Kravitz catch sight of the envelope. Ordinarily it would be impossible to miss, but shuffled between layers of otherwise worn-down correspondence, it’s only the bizarre glint that draws his eye—a distinctly unnatural holographic shimmer that shifts when he tries to look at it. He frowns and resolves to retrieve it once he’s inside and can feel his fingers again, and with that, he turns the key in their iron-wrought lock and pushes through.

The entryway is awash with golden light and the faint, jaunty strains of their gramophone. A woman’s rich drawl wafts towards him as Kravitz drops the bundle and shucks off his coat, shuddering when the warmth seeps through his still-damp shirt.

“I’m home!” he calls, and then the last of the fresh rain-scent melts away and is replaced by something savory wafting through the air. Kravitz smiles to himself as he tugs off his loafers, and when he looks up, there’s Taako, standing in the doorway to their kitchen, framed by the glow of the overhead. He’s clearly off the clock, as is evident by the kimono draped over his wide-collared blouse, and a ladle dangles absently from his wrist as he looks Kravitz up and down with an amused tilt to his mouth.

“Holy shit,” he says. “Who dropped you in the Hudson?”

“Good to see you too,” Kravitz says, dryly, and abandons the sopping bundle at the door to meet Taako for a quick, affectionate kiss. He notices the telltale honey-sweet sting of alcohol against his lips as he pulls away, and _then_ he notices the soft glaze over Taako’s eyes; the barely-perceptible sway to his movements, like gravity has a bit more say over him than usual. “Are we celebrating something?”

Taako hums, although the way his gaze flicks purposefully to the ceiling means he’s not really thinking about it at all. “Oh, uh, nothing, really. Just the biggest advance payment of our _entire_ not-career.”

“Advance payment?” Kravitz barely has time to say, before his husband whips out a check from the pocket of his kimono. He takes it gingerly, trying not to drip onto the creamy paper, and blinks droplets out of his eyelashes as he reads. And then reads it again. And again. Because this has to be a mistake—because that is, most definitely, one too many zeroes.

He’s vaguely aware of his mouth hanging open as he says, “This can’t be right.”

“Right as rain!” Taako crows, and giggles at his own joke, and plucks the check from Kravitz’s hands. “Now get in here. Come _on_.” He yanks Kravitz over the threshold and swings him in a wide arc, and Kravitz’s socks nearly do him wrong against the slick tile. Instead, he manages to keep his balance as Taako saunters forward and laces his fingers through his, leading them in a playful quickstep just barely out of sync with the gramophone’s rhythm. The woman is still singing, her voice jumping and mingling with the backtrack. “ _Forget the now,_ ” she croons, “ _and keep on yesterdayin’…_ ”

Kravitz is too bewildered to do anything but follow, automatically falling into pace with Taako as his mind sputters and whirls. He’s hallucinated the number on that check—he’s absolutely sure of it. Their clients, while few and far between, do pay them well, but this is an entirely different affair. This is a small fortune on a nondescript slip of paper, and just like that, he’s supposed to believe that it’s theirs. That’s never been how this works.

(Regrettably. So very, very, regrettably, because it really was an incredible amount of zeroes.)

“Taako,” he says, and stops them short in the middle of the kitchen. Outside, against the clouded panes, rain lashes the glass and falls to an unpleasant death in the dirt below. “Where did this come from? The—the check?”

The kimono shimmers as Taako shrugs, still looking as if he couldn’t muster a care in the world. “No idea! Ain’t it—ain’t it just the craziest thing! But what does it matter? We’re _rich_ , Krav.” He pulls away and sashays to the counter, plucking a crystal glass from where it sits next to the stove and taking a long sip. “I’m—I’ll renovate the house. We can buy a car _and_ a chauffeur. And one of those—uh, one of those giant fancy vases that just sits there and doesn’t do anything. Rich people have those. I mean, literally—”

“ _Taako_ ,” says Kravitz, with slightly more insistence. “You don’t know where it came from?”

“I mean—” He stutters a laugh around the rim of the glass. “No? Who cares?”

Kravitz’s heart jumps into his throat. “Where’s the envelope?”

“ _Relax_. I checked it. No cyanide, no anthrax, nothin’. It’s legit. Besides, if somebody wanted me t’ croak, and they tried to do it with—via the _postal service_ , they’ve earned themselves a super special place in hell.” With a flourish, Taako produces the check again, snapping it in Kravitz’s direction. “Check it yourself if you don’t believe me.”

But Kravitz waves him off. However flippant Taako can be, they’ve both received enough unfavorable correspondence to know how to handle items of suspicion. Still, that doesn’t keep him from eyeing the check from where it sits in Taako’s hand. “It had to have come with something. Did you check the return address?”

“Mm. Wasn’t one. There was a pa—a letter, right over there.” He levels a lazy finger at their table for two, where sure enough, an equally luxurious-looking sheet of stationary sits. “I didn’t look at it, because, well. _Duh_.”

 _Duh,_  indeed. The letter sits at an odd angle, like it had been tossed without a second glance and just happened to land on the table. Kravitz sighs. “Next time,” he says, “please lead with that.”

“Bo-ring,” Taako drones, but Kravitz’s attention has already turned to the letter. When he picks it up, the paper is soft and creamy against his fingers, and the penmanship is elegant and looping—a little like Taako’s, but not quite so meandering. It’s also nowhere near as hard to read, because he can make out the message, clear as day.

 _Your assistance is required. Invitation to follow.  
_ _T.B._

“Love,” says Kravitz, “do we have any clients with the initials _T.B._?”

“Don’t think so. Why?”

He holds up the paper. “No letterhead, no signature, but this wasn’t cheap. You’d expect a little more formality, don’t you think?”

Taako takes another sip of whatever is in his glass. “So it’s a, uh… what d’you call ’em? One’a those _illicit organizations_ ,” he says. “That just—just happened to blow their monthly payout on some fancy-ass paper. No big deal.”

“Have you ever seen a gang member’s handwriting look like this?”

The glass’s fine-cut edge hits the counter, and Taako squints as he inches closer. “Alright, fine. I admit that’s a little—that’s a little weird. Little strange. But _secretive_ doesn’t equal _illegal_ , and besides, y’know how these types get with their privacy. Nobody wants the press all up in their grill, especially when they claim to be seein’ ghosts.”

“Of course,” Kravitz deadpans. “Leave that to the paranormal investigators.”

“Freelance consultants, darling. Don’t want to give the public any ideas ab—about legitimacy.”

What Taako really means is _additional taxes_ , but even then, Kravitz can’t bring himself to disagree. Their clientele tends to favor under-the-radar sorts, and although the two of them are far from inconspicuous, their “freelance consulting” is usually the biggest selling point. And what a selling point it is—one, in fact, worth quite a bit in the eyes of the city elites. They don’t pay for the service, Kravitz knows. They pay their discretionary funds, handed over with a wink and a “Perhaps we can keep this quiet, hm?” Taako had joked once that they dealt in secrets, but after a few high-profile cases it isn’t feeling quite so facetious. They know every hotel ever haunted by disgruntled, long-deceased employees; every demonic ritual ever held in the basement of a Wall Street bank, and with that knowledge the ability to dismantle half the city.

Of course, their clients pay good money to make sure Taako and Kravitz keep that power to themselves. Kravitz and his federal-issue job haven’t quite figured out how he feels about that, but Taako, for whom power is a potent intoxicant, is both amused and delighted by the very prospect.

This check is good money if he’s ever seen it. At the same time, the clients with the biggest problems are always the ones who pay the most, and Kravitz can’t imagine what kind of preternatural incident would constitute this kind of money. “Right,” he says, absently, and then, “there was something… unusual in the mail today. I didn’t think anything of it, but…”

Taako regards him with a razor-sharp curiosity. “The _invitation_ , perhaps?”

“Maybe,” says Kravitz, and goes back into the hall where he’d abandoned the bundle. He shuffles through it carefully, thumbing over the stacks of mail, and finds the holographic envelope almost dead center. It gives another multicolored shimmer as he retrieves it and brings it back to the kitchen, where Taako snatches it out of his hand and brings it inches from his face.

“Hm,” is all he says.

“Don’t you want to open it?”

“All in good time,” comes the singsong reply, as he tips the envelope from side to side and watches the colors dance and transform in front of his eyes. Kravitz has to admit it’s a little hypnotizing. Then, in a flash, Taako pulls a letter opener from his pocket and slices it open. He flings the opener onto the counter behind him—evidently flinging unwanted objects is going to be a _thing_ , now—and pulls out an elegant card, deep blue and struck through with silver.

It does look like an invitation. The front bears a seal with the same iridescent finish as the envelope, starkly simple and almost Runic in nature. Granted, its strange appearance is all part of its charm. It’s built recognition off that eccentricity, drawing conspiracy theorists and New Age journalists to it in turn, heralding the stories that won’t be reported on anywhere else. Very few newspapers earn their infamy like this one does—because it manages to be entirely cryptic and reputable all at once.

“The _Balancer_ ,” he says.

Taako hums. B sharp, which means he’s intrigued. “Wouldja look at that.”

He thumbs it open, and they both lean in to read the silvery calligraphy engraved into the card.

_Dear Friend,_

_As a thank-you for your continued support, you are hereby invited to The Balancer’s 50th anniversary gala on Sunday, March 17 for an evening of celebration. The gala will begin at 7 p.m. Formal wear is required. Dinner and refreshments will be provided._

_Once again, we would like to thank you for your dedication to The Balancer and its fifty-year-long pursuit of truth. We hope to see you at the event._

_RSVP at the door._

“T.B.,” says Taako. “You think it could be?”

“I mean, it can’t be a coincidence. But this means what, then? The _Balancer_ is our client? What would a newspaper have to hide? They’re controversial, sure, but…”

Taako shrugs. “I think you’re missin’ the bigger picture here, babe. We’re invited to a _party_.” He grins, and it’s the wide, manic grin that heralds madcap plans and, if they’re lucky, a car chase or two. Kravitz knows it well and, as per the usual, he’s not quite sure how to feel about it. “Y’know what that means?”

“Well, we’ve got two days, so… we need to take every necessary precaution, make a contingency plan for attending, and do some background research on the _Balancer_ ’s legitimacy?”

“Yeah, sure, sure, whatever—bigger picture, here!” says Taako. He flicks the envelope onto the table and whirls around for what is undoubtedly dramatic effect, and the sleeves of his kimono flutter enticingly. “Suit up, my man. We’re going _shopping_.”

* * *

The employees of _Fantasie_ know them by name, occupation, shoe size, and tea preference, so they know more than most. Their closeness had come about in part due to the boutique’s very unfortunate haunting a year back, involving mannequins that moved on their own and mirrors that absolutely refused to display reflections, and those who hadn’t quit on the spot are some of Taako and Kravitz’s most pleasant companions.

It must say something about the sad state of their social life, but then as soon as they walk in the cashier hurries to boil some water, and Kravitz remembers why he can’t be bothered to care.

“Wouldja look at that!” New York City’s most unlikely inhabitant greets them at the front. Renée Goldsworth, sales associate, has a brilliant smile and a sunny demeanor to match—that’s remarkable enough on its own, but Ren, as she prefers, is completely unironic with her charm. She also works two jobs, idolizes Taako and his “free-spirited lifestyle” (copyright to the man himself, of course), and never seems to be short on a friendly hello. “My two favorite boys. What brings you here?”

Taako raps the tip of his umbrella against the floor. It’s bright red and a bit of an eyesore, but then again, it does fit with the rest of his eclectic style. “Ren,” he says, “Krav and I are going to a party. A _big_ party.” He arches a meaningful eyebrow. “You know what that means?”

Ren’s eyes light up. “Oh my goodness. I’ll clear the dressing rooms.”

True to her word, she shoos any remaining customers from the back of the shop, including a few hassled-looking couples and an exasperated older woman. The cashier returns with their tea—Earl Grey for Kravitz, peach for Taako—and Ren dives into the racks as Kravitz sips gratefully from his cup. “So!” she says, vaguely muffled behind a layer of extravagant garments. “What’re we thinking today? A gown? Good ol’ fashioned suit?”

“Oh, you _know_ ,” says Taako, and shoots her a wink over his saucer. Ren returns it with a knowing grin and says, “Mr. Kravitz, I’ve got just about everythin’ in stock around here, but I gotta tell you there’s this three-piece suit with your name on it.”

Well. However ostentatious they’re being for an otherwise suspicious occasion, Kravitz can’t help the thrill of excitement that goes through him at _three-piece suit_. “Really?”

Ren smiles. “I knew that’d catch your fancy. Lemme go see if I can dig it up from the stockrooms, alright? Mr. Taako, you know where everything is.”

“Sure do, darling,” he calls, and she tosses him a jaunty salute and disappears between two very feathery robes. The tea is abandoned on a nearby platter as Taako snags Kravitz’s hand and drags him to a corner of the boutique embellished with silks and velvet. He nods approvingly at the selection in front of him and says, “ _Nice_. This could take a while.”

“I mean, I wasn’t exactly expecting it to be an expedited process, so…”

“Snarky,” Taako observes, and gives him an affectionate nudge. “You gonna help me—uh, figure out what looks hot, or…?”

Kravitz regards the scores of dresses in front of him. “I was thinking I’d multitask and try to work out a little more about this case.”

“Hm,” says Taako. He steps forward into the racks, running his fingers through the the folds of a pale chiffon skirt, and says, “I was giving this some thought.”

“The skirt?”

“No, the—the case. The newspaper itself‘s not asking for our help, right? ’S gotta be someone within the organization, using it to contact us, uh, uh…”

“Anonymously,” Kravitz supplies.

“Yeah, yeah, natch.” His husband pauses in front of an elegant lavender number. He’s always been drawn to exotic colors, flaunting them like an overdressed bird of paradise. “So… somebody who works there, like, specifically. Gotta be higher—high up enough to send the invitation to us, because ain’t no way ch’boy was on the guest list.” Taako moves on from the lavender piece and on to a deeper, more luxurious purple. He puts a finger to his chin, then tugs at it for Kravitz to see. “What d’you think?”

“Just shy of overkill.”

“Perfect.” He pulls it off the rack and slings it over his arm. “So this is a—somebody important.”

Kravitz frowns. “With express knowledge of something going on inside the _Balancer_.”

“That they don’t want anybody else to be privy to,” Taako adds. He leads the way to the opposite corner, eyeing a pair of dangerously high heels on the way. “Because they think whatever this is would be _scandalous_.”

He slides the curtain shut, and Kravitz realizes with a start that he’s followed Taako into the dressing room. The cubicle is plenty spacious, which he isn’t sure whether to be glad of or bitter about. On the other hand, that means the fact that they’re standing so close is entirely of their own accord. Taako’s breath skims the base of Kravitz’s neck as he says, “Speaking of scandalous. Help me out, handsome?”

“For you, I suppose,” Kravitz deadpans, and then Taako kisses him, sharp with the black coffee he’d downed to sober up before they left. He releases a low, contented purr as Kravitz’s hands dip to the buttons on his blouse, undoing them with agonizing precision, teasing the soft skin underneath. _One, two, three, four, five…_ he maneuvers a few careful fingers under Taako’s waistband to loosen the tucked-in clasps, and Taako sighs; shifts forward into his touch.

“You _know_ we can’t.”

“Mm.” His eyelashes flutter with a delirium that makes Kravitz weak in the knees. “Maybe not. But a guy can dream, right?”

“I think,” says Kravitz, slipping the blouse off Taako’s shoulders, “that you should tell me more about what you were thinking.”

Taako blinks. “About—”

“About the case, dear.”

“Oh,” he murmurs. “Oh, uh… the scandal. That whole deal.”

He steps out of his long, loose trousers and reaches for the dress. Kravitz pretends he doesn’t notice the enthusiasm springloaded in every vestige of his body, all too visible under the dressing room’s warm lighting. “Yeah. So, like… newspaper like the _Balancer_ ’s gotta do that thing where they divide up information, right? Like when you put it all—when you put the stuff in boxes, you…?”

“Compartmentalize,” says Kravitz, and hands Taako his straps.

“ _Right_ , right, right, right. And they do it because they have to. No point in a reporter on a crime beat knowing what’s goin’ on in the—on the fashion scene, right? Zip me.” Taako flips his braid over one shoulder as Kravitz reaches for the zipper.

“So,” he continues. “Makes logical sense they’d do the same with alla the important shit. You got the editors, editor-in-chief, the head honcho… only the higher-ups get to worry about _everything_ that goes on around—in their newspaper, whatever. Story people focus on the stories and whatnot— _ouch_!”

Kravitz jerks back. “What?!”

Taako curses and yanks a pale golden strand from his scalp. “Hair caught in the zipper. Anyway, this person, whoever they are—they gotta be one of two things, I’m thinking. Either they’re in PR, one of those, y’know, know-all, tell-all types…”

At this point Kravitz can trace Taako’s line of reasoning as well as if it were hanging in the air in front of him. “Or they’re way up there. Someone in charge.”

“Someone _really_ up there,” says Taako. He finishes zipping the dress himself and props his hands on his hips, turning side to side. “Thoughts?”

Because he’s earned himself an indulgence or two, Kravitz leans in and presses a soft kiss to the nape of Taako’s neck. “Stunning,” he says, and means it—the ensemble is extravagant but unusual, eye-catching in all the right ways, fitted perfectly to Taako’s tapered waist and the slope of his shoulders.

“Sap,” Taako murmurs, and shrugs him off, but his ears are an incriminating scarlet. “Yeah. I’m goin’ for this one. Where’s your—”

Ren’s perfect timing is both a blessing and a curse. She raps her knuckles on the outside of the dressing room, and when she speaks, Kravitz can hear the knowing grin in her voice. “How’re you two doing in there?”

“Peachy,” Taako chirps, even though his blush hasn’t quite done him the favor of fading. “You got the suit yet?”

“Right here!” Her hand appears around the edge of the curtain and holds out a plastic-wrapped bundle of fabric. “Silver accents, but we can swap it for gold if you want.”

Taako looks beautiful in silver. It’s cool and sharp against his burnished skin, and royal purple with sterling accents will be something no one is expecting. “No, I’ll keep the silver,” says Kravitz, and takes the package. “It’ll be perfect.”

Ren’s fingers waggle in a cheery wave, and then her silhouette disappears from in front of the curtain. As Taako examines the dress’s paneling, he sits and unwraps the suit in his lap. The jacket’s been treated with something that makes it shimmer subtly under the light—not unlike the _Balancer_ ’s invitation, Kravitz thinks. A neat column of silver buttons embellishes the front, and he takes note of its distinct hue to compare it to his pair of crescent moon cuff links. One of them has a faulty pin, so he’ll have to repair them before they go.

 _If_ they go, that is. There’s still no evidence that this is a legitimate invitation. Kravitz and Taako had torn through the rest of the mail before they left, searching for any other _T.B._ ’s who could be their mysterious benefactor, but they’d come up empty-handed. Two hours’ worth of work lay strewn across the kitchen floor, yielding absolutely nothing but more questions and a slew of papercuts. Taako had blown off steam by harassing one of the local restaurant owners into giving them a reservation for later that night, and then they’d decided they weren’t in the mood to sweep up all the ripped-up envelopes and discarded letters, so they’d donned their coats and retreated to the shops and the storm.

Now that Kravitz thinks about it, their shopping has pretty much entered them into a contract to attend the gala whether he wants to or not. Taako’s probably figured that from the start. He doesn’t speak the language of social obligation anywhere near as well as Kravitz does, but that doesn’t keep him from spending frivolously on anything _high fashion_ , flattering or not. Besides, the glint in his eye makes it clear he’s too far down the rabbit hole for them to do anything other than go. Kravitz has to admit he’s similarly intrigued. It’s been a month or so since their last case, involving a disgruntled casino owner and a bit of drunk necromancy, and he’s started to itch at the thought of more dry weeks and long, insufferable office hours.

He breaks from his reverie when Taako whistles. “Hot damn,” he says. “That’s gonna fit you like a glove.”

“And cost about as much as a Rolls-Royce.”

“Worth the expense,” he says, waving off Kravitz’s objection. “Besides, you saw that check. We—uh, money is _definitely_ no objection tonight.”

“ _Money is no objection_ ,” Kravitz quips. “You’re really leaning into this whole upper-class thing, aren’t you?”

Taako shoves him with one ring-embellished hand. “Shut up. I’m allowed. With that kinda money we could get you that suit _and_ a Rolls-Royce. Isn’t that—that’s, like, your entire aesthetic, right?”

“It would be if you or I could drive.”

“We’ll learn. How hard can it be?” He goes back to preening in the mirror as Kravitz slips off his overcoat and tries the jacket on for size. Sure enough, it fits perfectly, hugging his shoulders and sitting comfortably against his breast. The seams over his hip are pulled slightly inward, bearing signs of Ren’s skillful tailoring, and he sets a mental reminder to tip her before they leave. Nevermind that tips aren’t anywhere near a cornerstone of the boutique business—it’s the only means by which she’ll let him pay her.

It really is a beautiful jacket. “Suits me, don’t you think?”

Taako turns back and almost trips on the pale linoleum. “Oh. Uh—yeah. _Wow_. That’s something.”

He has an expression on his face that looks caught between adoring and enraptured, and the way his eyes rove makes Kravitz’s heart speed up and throb against his ribcage. So much for multitasking. “Yeah,” Taako repeats, nudging the dress’s trailing fabric so he can turn completely around. There’s scarcely enough space to breathe as he rests a knee next to Kravitz’s thigh, leaning forward until the only thing maintaining the space between them is a commendable self-restraint.

“You look good,” he whispers. “Did I say that already?”

“Honestly,” says Kravitz, “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“Thank God. Me neither.” Taako pulls him into a kiss, and it’s hot and relieved and shocks a bit of the feeling back into Kravitz’s rain-numb lips. They sink into each other, rocking back against the thin wall of the dressing room, making it rattle and sending a few chips of plaster drifting down from the ceiling. Kravitz mumbles a curse and Taako laughs and kisses him again, fingers tracing a wavering line from the seam of his jacket to his waistband. This time he doesn’t bother pretending to offer up any resistance.

It’s been a long day, he thinks, as they gasp into each other’s mouths and strain for friction in what little space remains between them. If ever he’s needed a little release of tension, now is the time.

And they’re late to their reservation, tastefully disheveled and flushed despite the merciless chill, but the look on the maître-d’s face makes it all worth it.

Their table is, despite the late notice, one of the nicest to be had. Half-hidden behind a trellis smothered in decidedly fake grapevines, it sits adjacent to a large window that overlooks the glimmering city skyline. Rain streaks the glass and turns the lights to smudges of color—it’s still storming, but softer, with fewer flashes of lightning and a steadier downpour that falls perpendicular to the ground instead of parallel.

Taako catches Kravitz by the sleeve before he can sit and adjusts his collar, pushing it down and straightening the edges. “Crooked,” he says, with amusement clear in his voice.

“You have plaster under your fingernails.”

He holds them up to his face and raises an eyebrow, sliding neatly into one of the plush-backed seats. “Can you blame me? I gotta ground myself somehow.”

“I don’t know about grounding,” says Kravitz, pulling out a chair, “but you were doing plenty of _grinding_ by yourself, darling.”

Taako’s ears flush bright red for the second time in a day. It’s rare and beautiful and because he’s always been rather good at playing himself for a lovestruck fool, Kravitz almost misses his mark trying to sit down. “We, uh—” His voice cracks, and he flips a lock of hair over his shoulder like he’s dismissing it from view. “ _O_ -kay. We gettin’ some wine, or what?”

They do get some wine. They also order a couple of hors d’œuvres that are sure to make up half their bill, and which are appealing primarily because of how expensive they are. The stress and paranoia of the afternoon has by this time melted away with the rain, and although Kravitz’s analytical mind is still spinning in circles, he’s content to let it run itself down in the background of an otherwise relaxing evening.

That said. The entrées are on their way, and they’re picking over the last of the prosciutto in a comfortable silence. “You read the _Balancer_ , don’t you?”

Taako spears a cherry tomato with his fork. “Horoscopes. Their astro—uh, astrological sense is surprisingly on point. And the stories are interesting, I guess. I mostly look at the pictures.”

Kravitz happens to know that’s patently untrue, but the best way to encourage his husband to continue is to stay quiet and attentive. He sits back, waiting, as Taako impales a piece of finely sliced feta next to the tomato and pops it in his mouth. “They can get a bit, uh… couple candles short of a séance,” he says, through a mouthful of cheese and fruit. “Y’know what I mean? But it’s solid writing. Real good for your daily dose of conspiracy. Like, they did this whole investigative report on how—how there’s this town where everyone is actually the same person? And it—” Taako snorts. “I mean, I’m a believer, but that’s—well. Good for a laugh, anyway.”

“How does that…” Kravitz frowns. “How would that even work, logistically?”

“Can’t think too hard about it, bubula. That’s part of the fun.” He shrugs, rolling another tomato under one sharp prong. “It’s a weird newspaper. I never really considered they did _legit_ stuff like this.”

“Like throwing a gala?”

“Like throwing a gala.” Taako taps the end of the fork to his lips. “This could _totally_ be a setup, couldn’t it?”

Kravitz tips his head in thought. It’s a habit he’s never been able to shake—Taako says he looks like a bird, bright-eyed and inquisitive of the empty space. “I mean… the _Balancer_ isn’t exactly your average news source. If someone wanted to sabotage them, hurt their sponsorship and patronage and whatnot, having a couple of paranormal investigators show up at their doorstep might be a good first go at it.”

“Yeah, but it’s not like—like we’re gonna show up with bells and talcum powder.”

“Mm. I mean, other than that, I don’t see why someone would send us a fake invitation.” They’ve been mislead before, and with far less. Of course, it doesn’t help that Taako feels the need to follow every troubling premonition he gets, but Kravitz will admit that more often than not his recklessness leads to a break in the case.

The premonitions are another thing entirely, and it reminds Kravitz of something they’re missing—an obvious, gaping step in their procedure.

“You should do a reading,” he says. “On the note and the invitation, when we get back.”

Taako frowns. “Impressions are pretty hard to get off a _letter_ , my man. That’s gonna be some deep probing.”

“I’m just—it just struck me as strange, honestly. All of this happening and you haven’t had a single premonition.”

He’s right, and he can see in Taako’s eyes that his husband knows he’s right, too. Premonitions, good or bad, trail him like a second shadow. They hit suddenly and without warning, and during a case they always increase in frequency and intensity. Kravitz’s paranoia is nothing, he knows, compared to a creeping and vague understanding of the future. Taako brushes them off; says they’re nothing next to the visions, which come to him in the night and inflict far more horrible things. Of course, there’s no point of reference for Kravitz to argue with, so he usually ends up dropping the subject altogether.

Regardless, premonitions are a constant, both of Taako’s life and their work together. The thought of their absence is more disturbing than it has any right to be.

“Yeah,” says Taako, eventually. “Yeah, okay. Let’s do a reading.”

* * *

Readings, incidentally or not, are all about atmosphere. Kravitz makes his rounds in the living room, dimming the lamps and throwing the curtains wide. By now the storm has passed, and although a few wispy clouds remain in the sky, none of them are quite strong enough to blot out the moon and its persistent glow. The light spills in shafts across the carpet and Kravitz’s loafers, and he pushes a table out of the way to clear the space for a smooth, uninterrupted pool of silver.

Taako emerges from the kitchen, looking rather as if he’d never left home with the exception of one silken glove on his left hand. Pinched between his fabric-covered fingers are the note and the invitation, and he sets them carefully on the floor, then steps back so his shadow doesn’t cut a void through the light. “Gorgeous weather, huh?”

“Perfect,” says Kravitz, because it is. Fate has apparently decided to be kind to their efforts.

The two letters lay, white and brilliant, next to their arching windows. Taako sits cross-legged in front of them, his own rich complexion turned as pale as a spectre itself as he takes deep, soft breaths. Steeling himself for what comes next is a crucial part of the process. Impressions, unlike premonitions, can be noticeably more violent and even sickening, depending on their strength. Taako’s never said whether it’s a psychic thing or a _him_ thing, and for good reason, Kravitz suspects; either way it’ll lead him headlong into worry. There are some aspects of Taako’s extrasensory talents that he himself will never understand, but that couldn’t possibly matter less. What matters is that he’s there to put out the fires.

Several minutes pass in relative silence. A few automobiles trundle by, bulky and glimmering in the moonlight, and disappear down the street. The stirrings of uneasiness are  just starting to turn Kravitz’s stomach when Taako opens his eyes. “That’s good,” he says. “They’re ready.”

Something has shifted in the air, almost imperceptibly; anticipation thickens and clings to the walls as Taako strips off the glove. His hand hovers over the invitation, and he closes his eyes again, tilting his head to the ceiling like he can make out something through his eyelids. Where one of his quips would normally fill the silence, there is nothing, now. Only a gentle tapping against the window pane as the wind whips a few spindly branches against it.

Taako’s hand moves toward the invitation as if drawn by a magnetic force. His fingers make contact with the surface, and he gives no indication that he can tell besides a soft intake of breath.

“Cold,” he whispers.

Kravitz knows better than to prompt him. He watches as Taako tilts his head, tracing an invisible line along the width of the ceiling. “I’m getting something mechanical,” he says, still nearly quiet enough to be missed in the silence of the evening. “Like, actual machinery. A printing press? These were mass produced. Quick, easy… impersonal.”

His voice is steady and unaffected by its usual tremor, just as it always is when he trances. “Whoever sent these out had purpose. Ambition. There are high hopes _all_ tangled up in this thing, threaded out through the city, reaching…”

Taako sighs, and although his eyes stay closed, he takes his hand off the invitation. “So the host wants this to be a big deal. No duh. We’re not gonna get anything from this.”

It’s a rash assumption, to say the least, and Kravitz wants to say _are you sure about that_ or persuade him to reconsider, but he can’t break Taako’s trance or his concentration, so he holds his tongue. Taako pushes the invitation out of his way and reaches for the letter. “Alright,” he murmurs. “Let’s see what you’ve got for me.”

This time is different.

The instant Taako’s fingers graze the letter, he stiffens like he’s received an electric shock. Kravitz’s entire body twitches with the effort of keeping still. All at once, energy surges through the air and ignites the tension, setting it aflame.

“ _Shit_ ,” Taako says, breathlessly. “There’s a… a _ridiculously_ powerful energy here. But it feels blank. No impressions, no attributes, it’s…”

He seems to lose his train of thought for a moment, and Kravitz realizes his own nails are digging gouges into his palms. Pain registers vaguely at the back of his mind, but in the moment, he can’t be bothered to care.

Mercifully, it doesn’t take too long for Taako to speak again. “It’s like a block,” he finishes. “Like a _huge_ psychic block. I can’t—”

He inhales sharply, and this time Kravitz really does have to bite his tongue to keep from saying anything. “I can’t… okay. I’m gonna see what I can do here. Try and get through. It can’t go that deep.”

This isn’t right. It’s hardly safe to begin with, but Kravitz has never heard Taako so intimidated before. Whatever this is transcends their experience in the preternatural world, and considering the nature of their day so far, he’s inclined to believe things are about to get stranger in a way they’re not equipped to deal with. Sometimes improvisation is necessary. Sometimes it’s dangerous.

But Taako is deep in a trance, and there won’t be any arguing with him until he emerges fully back into the mortal coil. So Kravitz stays quiet, and almost hates himself for it.

The silence is more than deafening. It covers him like a cold sweat and sticks loose strands of hair to Taako’s forehead as he sits perfectly still, head inclined to the heavens, reaching out into the unknown. Another automobile rumbles past and makes the windows quiver. Moonlight shifts and sinks into the carpet fibers.

It all happens too fast for Kravitz to follow, but he imagines it progresses something like this: Taako’s body jerks, his eyes fly open and roll back, and he collapses into the coffee table.

The universe won’t judge Kravitz too harshly for letting a gasp slip out. He steps forward into the circle of light, and the air crackles and grasps at his shoulders with incorporeal hands, begging him to retreat to safety, imploring him not to interrupt the electricity that flows through the room like a conduit. They snag at his clothing and fall away as he drops to his knees next to Taako, who’s become wedged awkwardly against the table leg. He’s jerking and shuddering, fingers twitching to some indiscernible melody, and the affliction strikes him paler than the moon.

“Taako,” Kravitz says, and that’s supposed to break the spell; supposed to shatter the trance and let it crumble into pieces of a surreal memory. It doesn’t. Taako musters a small, choked noise at the back of his throat and falls silent again.

Panic flashes dizzyingly across Kravitz’s field of view. He blinks away the stars and says, “Taako, can you hear me? Come back to me, okay? Just—just give me a sign if you can hear me. Make a sound, or…”

He trails off, rendered mute with helplessness and disbelief as Taako’s eyelashes flutter deliriously. They’ve discussed physical contact and why it’s incredibly risky—something so material could break the trance too quickly and make for a jarring, violent return to reality. But however dangerous it is, Kravitz thinks, it can’t possibly be worse than whatever unseen force is puppeteering his husband’s body. With a quick, silent appeal to any metaphysical deity that does feel like looking out for them, he takes a deep breath and grips Taako’s shoulders.

The instant he does, Taako’s eyes snap open. He gasps and chokes on air, fighting the last of the shaking as it subsides, and slowly comes to under Kravitz’s steady hold. “Uh,” he says, and then tries again. “What… what jus’ happened?”

Kravitz breathes out—something he’d neglected to do beforehand—and looks behind him to the note, sitting innocently in a pool of silver light.

“I have absolutely no idea,” he says.

* * *

Taako insists he’s fine to walk. It’s just _upstairs_ , he complains; he’ll be fine, really, it was a little knock on the head, what’s the harm? But his knees buckle as soon as he gets to his feet, and after the night they’ve endured, that’s all Kravitz needs. He scoops a still-protesting Taako into his arms and leaves the letters and the moonlight behind.

The bedroom’s warm glow is welcome reprieve from the shadows that lurk in the living room and threaten to trail them up the stairs. Despite his earlier bravado, Taako looks visibly grateful to be set down on their bed, and his face is still leeched of color as he reclines back against the headboard. He’s uncharacteristically quiet, choosing instead to watch Kravitz light a few more of the lamps and draw the curtains shut. Their window is dotted with tiny beads of rain that linger in the aftermath of the day’s storm.

It’s far too easy to fall victim to silence.

“Thanks,” Taako says. His voice is soft and sudden and rasps painfully in his throat. “For pulling me out of that.”

His husband is the rare breed that adores being doted on for the small things, but absolutely despises pity when it is earned. Kravitz doesn’t turn—he finishes arranging the curtains and goes to dim the lamp next to their bed. “Of course,” is all he says. “That’s what I’m here for.”

Taako doesn’t respond at first. “Yeah,” he agrees, eventually; and then, “yeah, yeah, right, uh—” He breaks off around a wobbly laugh. “I guess I was really—really _not_ prepared for that one, huh?”

Kravitz is caught somewhere between a reassurance and an affirmation when he looks up and sees that Taako’s eyes are glassy. He’s saying something else, now, fluttering his hand in one of his many absentminded mannerisms, but he has a white-knuckled grip on the comforter beneath him and seems to pause for breath at every other word. It’s terrifying; moreso than the events of that night or any implications they might have. Taako is scared, and it’s of something they may not be able to fight.

But apart from any of that, apart from any potentially apocalyptic psychic powers that be—Taako is _scared_.

Kravitz sits and puts his hand over Taako’s, prompting a small intake of breath. “If you want to talk about what you… saw, what you felt…”

Once again, there isn’t an immediate response, but he can feel tension coil and slowly release in Taako’s wrist. “I can’t, uh—I can’t really make sense of it right now,” he says. “It was just a lot.”

“Of course.”

They slip back into silence, that deceptively simple escape from the entrapment of conversation and having to confront exactly what they’ve done. Extrasensory powers aren’t exactly Kravitz’s area of expertise. He’s more well versed in the occult, the enterprising young people who call themselves necromancers because they set out candles and Satanic symbols for the sake of atmosphere. Even before he’d become involved in their line of work, he’d rather naively encountered summonings and apparitions of vague significance. His gift is a fickle one, and he’s found himself better suited to investigation and deduction, anyway. Combined with Taako’s psychic prowess, they make an unconventional but formidable team.

But not comprehending the complexities of psychic ability means sometimes Kravitz can’t _understand_. He’s built a career off _understanding_ and nebulous spaces like these trip him up; make him clumsier than he would like. More prone to mistakes. More prone to foolish decisions.

Decisions that, in this case, can end up in his loved ones getting hurt.

“I suggested the reading,” he says, numbly. “We should have assessed first, and I just… wasn’t thinking, and I pushed you into it, and—”

Taako pinches him. “Don’t you dare.”

“ _Ow_ ,” says Kravitz, with feeling. “Don’t I dare what?”

“Don’t you dare pull that martyr bullshit on me.” He jabs a finger at Kravitz’s chest, and the force behind it is weak but the point is not. “We decided to do the reading _together_ , okay? You get me? _Comprendé_? That wasn’t your fault. Wasn’t anybody’s.”

Taako is right, of course, even though a freezing shard of irrationality is still wedged in Kravitz’s heart. He takes a deep breath and tries to will it to dispel. Self-sacrificing won’t get them anywhere, and it certainly won’t get them any answers, which has to be their top priority. Especially now that they know that there’s someone—or something—trying to divert them from the truth.

It means they’re close, he thinks. Maybe not to the be-all, end-all resolution, but they’re close to _something_.

He turns as if Taako will have the _something_ , or at least an idea of what it might be, and his husband stirs and rouses. “I’m awake.”

Kravitz raises an eyebrow. “Are you?”

“Am I?” Taako repeats blearily, and yawns. The color is starting to return to his face, although he still looks wan and remarkably frail under the sheets. “I mean—I am, I _deffo_ am. All, uh, fully conscious over here.”

Naturally, he then undermines himself with another wide yawn. “You should go to sleep, love,” says Kravitz. “It’s been a, uh… a draining night. Does your head still hurt?”

“ ’M kinda… dizzy,” comes the mumbled reply. “Feelin’ a little weird. That’s about it.”

“If you’re still feeling badly in the morning, we’ll ring Merle, alright? For now, you need your rest if we’re going to figure out what happened here tonight.”

Taako mutters something in vague protest, even though his eyelids are already starting to droop once more. He shifts until he’s tucked himself against Kravitz, legs tangled up in his like an anchor. “I can get it right now. I’ll… deduct the whole thing, or whatever.”

“Mhm,” says Kravitz, patiently. “Lights on or off?”

His hand curls just slightly in Kravitz’s shirt. “On.”

After the events of the reading, Kravitz doesn’t mind at all, although the fact that his sleepy husband is clinging to him eliminates the second option altogether. Taako breathes out and it’s a peaceful breath; the first sign of relaxation they’ve been able to muster between them. Kravitz’s pulse is still residing in his throat. He’s practically dizzy with how fast his logical mind is spinning, already hard at work trying to devise an explanation.

Then again, it might also be the shroud of exhaustion creeping over him and settling in his bones. They’re still in their evening wear and the room is warm with light, but Kravitz and Taako fall asleep like they haven’t done so in months.

* * *

Often the things that seem most daunting lose their luster in the light of the early morning. The night before is an unsettling but distant memory when Kravitz stirs and rolls over, fumbling for Taako’s waist or his sleep-mussed hair. What he finds instead is an empty space. The covers on the opposite side of the bed are thrown back, and a thin, bright glow streams out from behind the bathroom door adjacent. After a moment, Kravitz realizes the faucet is running.

Satisfied, he checks the time and falls back onto his pillow. Sleep is just beginning to overtake him again when something flickers at the back of his mind—a _wrongness_ , vague but unmistakable. Intuition is the closest thing to a premonition that Kravitz can have, and as he well knows, premonitions are not to be ignored. He sits up, rounds the bed, and knocks on the bathroom door.

“Everything alright in there?”

“Uh—” Kravitz detects the lie in Taako’s pitch before he even has the chance to tell it. “Yep! Everything’s—we’re all good in here!”

He’s scarcely making the effort. “Okay,” says Kravitz. “I’m coming in.”

“No, you really don’t—you don’t have to—”

The door only makes it partially open before it stops against Taako’s foot. He freezes midway through trying to prop himself on his elbows, and immediately Kravitz notices the sweat beading on his forehead. “Uh, hey, my man. How’s it goin’?”

Kravitz’s intuition flares hot, bright, and dissipates; as if to say _I told you so_. “Did you collapse?” he says, and without really knowing why, his voice is rent with disbelief.

Taako scoffs. “ _Collapse_ is pretty harsh, isn’t it? I just felt a little… uh, bad, so I decided to take a good ol’ break. On the floor. No big deal.”

“You’re taking a break,” says Kravitz, slowly. “On the floor.”

“Now you got it, doll.”

A few minutes and a couple of half-grade excuses later, Taako settles back into bed. “I _said_ I was good,” he says, with a petulant set to his jaw. “I coulda gotten up on my own.”

Kravitz shugs. “Eventually, sure. But exactly how long would that have been?”

“Fuck off.” He closes his eyes and presses a hand to his forehead. “My mind’s clearer but my body feels like shit. Fuckin’—figures, right?”

“And it all has to do with the block, you think?”

“I dunno what else it would be. That was some—some _real_ powerful stuff. Ch’boy’s aura is not looking good, and I dunno if I can manage a cleanse right now.” He’s not quite as colorless as he had been the night before, but there’s a slightly delirious glaze over Taako’s eyes, and his lips are chapped and cracked in small valleys. Whatever the cause, he isn’t well enough to get himself across the room, much less out of bed.

Kravitz shoots a pointed look at the door. “We could call Merle. If you can’t do it yourself, a spiritual healer is the next best thing, isn’t it?”

Taako still looks recalcitrant, and his expression sours even more at that. Whether it’s at the prospect of letting someone heal him or the prospect of Merle himself, Kravitz isn’t entirely sure. “I mean, I _guess._  But you know how he is. He’ll be all like—like, ‘Oh, what were you kids up to last night? Must’ve cost you a lot of _stamina_ , eh?’ ”

Admittedly his impression is pretty spot-on, but the point is not lost on Kravitz. “You think he’ll be nosy?”

“As much as I hate to say it, and I do, I _really_ do, the guy’s got talent. If he sees—sees _this_ ,” Taako says, and gestures broadly to himself, “he’s gonna know something is up. Something with a whole lotta bad psychic energy.”

“But you said it yourself,” Kravitz returns. “You don’t have it in you for a cleanse. And honestly, I don’t think you’re going to until you get this resolved.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He sighs and lets his head knock lightly against the headboard. “This really is… this is our best option, huh?”

“It certainly looks that way.”

Taako drags a hand down his face, pulling his eyes to the ceiling in an exaggerated portrait of despair. “ _Fine_. You can ring Merle. But if he makes _one_ comment about—about the, the fuckin’ _chemistry_ in the room, I’m kicking him out of the house myself.”

Kravitz is already halfway to the door. “And you’ll be making it down the stairs on your own, I take it?”

A pillow hits him square in the back, and with rather impressive force, at that. “Nobody asked you, pretty boy.”

The house’s high windows are aglow as he traipses downstairs, shooting a cursory glance through the entryway to the living room. Sure enough, the two letters are laying inconspicuously next to the coffee table, which unlike his husband is none the worse for wear. The _Balancer_ ’s invitation shimmers and ripples in the sunlight. Kravitz makes a note to store them away somewhere safe, and turns away.

A telephone is, with their combined income, a luxury they’re barely able to afford, but it does come in handy when panicked tenants call about the phantoms haunting their hallways. Kravitz picks up the receiver and rattles off the familiar number to the operator, who connects him almost immediately—the poor woman is plenty used to making all sorts of connections to and from their household. She’s probably the only person who knows anywhere near as much about the supernatural occurrences in New York City as Kravitz and Taako do, and that’s assuming she can make anything out when the person on the other end is frantically babbling about a spirit in their living room.

But credit where credit is due: she has the patience of a saint. The phone clicks, followed by a series of ringtones Kravitz recognizes. He only has to wait three rings before another click sounds, followed by a low, gravelly voice that crackles through the receiver. _“Yello?”_

“You have to stop answering the phone like that,” says Kravitz. “It’s unprofessional.”

 _“Well, the least you could do is say_ yello _back.”_ Merle Highchurch heaves a sigh that comes through as another burst of static. _“What can I do ya for?”_

The question pins Kravitz like a butterfly to a board. “Uh… well, it’s a little… unconventional. Taako’s aura is sick.”

A contemplative hum filters over the white noise. _“He got himself into some shit, didn’t he?”_

“Ah—that, uh, that sort of thing tends to happen in our line of work. This particular instance is just… worse. Worse than usual, I mean. He’s pale and shaking and he can’t get up from bed, and as far as we know, his psychic energy is completely drained. We thought you might be able to help.”

He can practically hear Merle’s thick, bushy eyebrow quirk upward. _“_ We _thought, huh?”_

“Well,” Kravitz says, and then, “ _I_ thought.”

_“Yeah, that sounds like the stubborn brat I know. Alrighty. I’ll be over in a bit.”_

His voice breaks off into a dial tone, and Kravitz exhales quietly and hangs up. It’s strange, not to tell Merle the whole truth—he’s seen things just about as strange as what their work brings them on a daily basis, and never seems to be fazed by any of them. He’s also a family friend of Taako’s, which the latter claims is only in the loosest of terms, because technically his only family is Kravitz and _friend_ , he says, is pushing it. In Kravitz’s opinion, he’s the closest thing Taako has to a father. It would, at the very least, explain the two default settings Taako seems to have around him: _petulant_ and _embarrassed beyond belief_.

Merle seems to take his sweet time getting just about anywhere, so Kravitz has some time to kill. He digs into the refrigerator and gets a couple of eggs sizzling, then slots two pieces of bread neatly into the toaster and sets about brewing some coffee. Cooking is unquestionably Taako’s thing—and, more importantly, not at all his. But there are a few things nearly impossible to fumble; hence the eggs and toast.

Taako had tried to explain it to him, once. “You make food,” he’d said, smothering a row of asparagus in olive oil. “You don’t _make_ it. Y’know?”

“Oh, yeah, I get it,” said Kravitz, who didn’t.

Since then it’s become painfully clear that only one of them has any competence in the kitchen. But his husband is ill, and just this once, Kravitz is hoping the universe will grant him just enough skill to make him breakfast in bed.

Some several minutes later, he returns upstairs, where Taako is staring idly out the window and fidgeting with the sheets. A broken, tinny voice filters through the small radio on his nightstand. _“The suspect was apprehended two blocks north of the scene,”_ it says, _“and although he gave ’em a run for their money, all stolen goods were returned!”_

Taako tries the eggs, takes a sip of coffee, and nibbles delicately on the toast. Kravitz watches with his heart climbing slowly up his throat. “What do you think?”

“Mm? Oh—” He swallows a bite of toast. “It’s, uh, good. Great. Great job, my man.”

For all his preternatural ability, Taako has never been a good liar. He’s never even been a passable one. “I’ll relieve you of the agony of having to go on,” says Kravitz, drily. “Tell me what you really think of it, please.”

Immediately the façade drops. “Oh, thank _God_ ,” says Taako. “The eggs are watery, the coffee tastes like burnt rubber, and—and somehow you managed to _over-toast_ the toast. I mean, jeezy creezy, this is an improvement from your last attempt but that’s—that’s not saying much.”

Somehow, Kravitz can’t resist a smile. There’s something so intrinsically familiar about the scene; even as a dark psychic force threatens to tear their life apart, Taako can still find time to mercilessly critique his cooking as the radio warbles on in the background. “Thanks,” he says.

Taako blinks. “For…?”

“For being you,” says Kravitz, and leans over the watery eggs and burnt-rubber coffee to give Taako a kiss on the forehead.

“You’re ridiculous,” says Taako, as if his ears don’t give him away once again. He looks away, back out the window with what Kravitz could swear is a smile tugging at his lips. Behind them, the radio announcer is still prattling about something or other, skimming through the stories of the day. _“In other news,”_ he says, _“the mayor today announced a new public safety initiative that looks like it’s set to shake up the city.”_

The audio cuts to a clip of the mayor’s voice, slightly muffled through a microphone’s feedback as he speaks to the low murmur of a crowd. _“Domestic security is our top priority,”_ it proclaims. _“In order to protect the peace, we must first protect our people.”_

He rambles on, undoubtedly reading off a cut-and-dry script. Taako’s gaze flicks offhandedly to the radio as he says, “Y’know, I’m, like, ninety percent sure he likes fellas.”

“The mayor?”

Taako raises his eyebrows. “Did you—did you actually _see_ the way he was eyeing me at New York City Hall? And I’m pretty sure you drew a couple glances yourself.” He grins suggestively and says, “Not that I could blame ’im.”

Kravitz chooses to ignore the fact that his husband’s flirting can still make heat rise to his face, even after all the time they’ve known each other. “That may have had something to do with your hat being half your size, darling.”

“Details, details,” says Taako, and flutters a hand like he’s brushing them away. “I’m never wrong about this stuff.”

The doorbell interrupts them with a loud, unpleasant trill, and Kravitz stands up on a reflex. “I know it’s terrible,” he says, “but please eat something.”

Taako winks. “Over my dead body.”

* * *

The air in the bedroom is turning crisp with herbs and spices as Merle takes out his glasses and perches them carefully on the bridge of his nose. “Never thought I’d see the day,” he says, and the glee is a little too evident in his voice. “The great Taako Fairaway, psychic extraordinaire, is coming to _me_ for help.”

“Enjoy it while it lasts, old man,” Taako shoots back. He’s tossed the covers back for Merle’s scrutiny, and Kravitz pretends he doesn’t notice the tray of food sitting at the end of the bed, untouched. A few gemstones sit on the mattress next to Merle, most of which Kravitz is fairly sure are amethyst. They glimmer and shine under shafts of sunlight as Merle surveys Taako with a frown.

Spiritual healing is a slippery slope. Just about anyone without extrasensory abilities will call it a pseudoscience at best and a complete scam at worst, and its case isn’t helped by the fact that most spiritual healers tend to be decidedly eccentric characters. Then again, Merle isn’t most healers. He takes pride in being irreverent and honest to a fault, and his bedside manner is, to put it simply, abysmal. But his eccentricities exist secondarily to the man himself, and if he’s won the uphill battle that is gaining Taako’s trust, Kravitz is willing to put complete faith in Merle and his practices. Even if those practices do involve steepling his fingers and staring intensely at Taako like his life depends on it.

Finally he sits back, takes off his glasses, and says, “What the _hell_ did you do last night?”

“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” Taako drawls. “I got _super_ drunk last night. This is the world’s worst hangover.”

“If you don’t wanna tell me, just say so.” He sighs and looks dubiously to the amethyst. “I’m gonna try some contact healing to purge your aura of some’a these nasty negative energies. With, uh… added contact from the crystals, I think. This is kind of a weird one.”

Kravitz’s chest twinges. It’s not lost on him how quiet Taako is right then, as if he’s immersed in thought or something that reaches deeper. “ _Weird_ how, exactly?”

Merle sighs and rubs a thumb over the frames of his lenses. “Usually, if you got bad energy, it’s contained in your aura. It’ll affect you, sure, get all up in your business and make you feel pretty crappy, but that’s all it is. This is… this is different. This energy doesn’t look like it wants to budge. Near as I can tell, it’s bein’ projected from some internal source.”

“ _Internal source_?” Taako scoffs. “You think I’m doing this to _myself_? Oh, yeah, just—just having the time of my fuckin’ life over here, big ol’ party, I _love_ not being able to—uh, to get up and walk around ’n shit. All part of the plan.”

“I’m not saying you’re doin’ it on _purpose_.” Merle reaches out and flicks Taako’s shoulder, and he recoils with a squeak of protest. “Shut up and listen up. If somethin’ in you is attacking itself, best way we can help it is clear your aura and give it some room. Hopefully that’ll get rid of the worst of it.”

“But _why_?” Kravitz presses. “This—is he being poisoned, or something?”

Taako’s gaze flicks to his a little sharply. “I’m not being _poisoned_ , Kravitz. C’mon.”

“We don’t really know that,” Merle interjects. “I mean—”

“Oh, thanks, you’re _super_ helpful—”

“—it won’t _matter_ ,” he continues, because he’s one of the few people who refuses to be daunted by Taako’s derision, “as long as we get it outta you. So, you ready to do this thing or not?”

Reluctantly, Taako deflates. He pushes himself down to lie flat on the bed and says, “Fine. Let’s do it.”

Kravitz swallows the other worries sticking in his throat. He’s not sure whether Merle actually requires silence or if he just says so to mess with them, but nevertheless it’s a chance he’s not willing to take. Instead, he watches as Merle sets the amethysts at strategic points around Taako’s body and picks up two of the darker stones.

“Jet stones,” he says. “Fantastic for givin’ the bad energies a good purge.”

One of the crystals goes on Taako’s forehead; the other, placed carefully at his breast. The mind and the heart, Kravitz thinks. Merle puts one hand on his collarbone and one on his abdomen, then closes his eyes. He’s never exactly described his process to them, or anyone else, for that matter; even Taako, who usually insists on doing his own cleanses, has a vague approximation of what it might be. “I can feel the energy… like, shifting,” he’d said, once. “It’s different than how I do it. The guy’s as weird as his technique.”

Kravitz would find auras, energies, and gemstones verging on the ridiculous if he didn’t have firsthand experience with their power, and even then. He’d expressed his doubt once to Merle, early on, and Merle had done the last thing he’d expected—he had agreed. Spiritual healing, he’d told Kravitz, is a two-way street, and Taako’s extrasensory perception makes him receptive to energy cleansing and manipulation. _Normies_ , as Merle puts it, aren’t inclined to have their energies re-aligned. When the clients don’t believe in the treatment they’re receiving, the results are nonexistent at best.

His husband is a self-proclaimed believer. Kravitz doesn’t quite know what he is, but he doesn’t much care as long as Taako gets better.

The passing minutes fall at a drag through the light and leave shadows in their wake. Merle hasn’t moved, and neither has Taako; he looks almost meditative as he lies still and silent under Merle’s hands. Healing and repairing the aura is, aside from the concept itself, a fairly dull thing. At one point Kravitz catches his vision starting to blur, and he sits upright and grips the armrests to shock a little sensation back into his fingers.

Just after the grandfather clock downstairs chimes ten times, Merle removes his hands.

“He’s asleep,” he says, and kneads at his hairline. “Stable, and I think with a whole lotta bed rest, he’s gonna get his mojo back. But this…”

Kravitz hopes fervently his expression is unreadable. He’s not much of a better liar than Taako, although he can usually stammer his way through a falsehood without breaking eye contact. “If you’re concerned about something, just say so.”

Merle thumbs over one of the spare amethysts. “When you kids got engaged, you promised you’d never bullshit me.”

“I’m not bullshitting you.”

“Not what I said. What you do, it can get dangerous. I know that. I trust you both to keep the dumbassery at a minimum because you’ve done it before.” The amethyst turns and glitters between Merle’s fingers, which against its smooth facets are calloused and worn with age. “When shit starts getting bad, that’s when your business turns into my business. I dunno what it is that drained Taako like that, but… whatever it was, Kravitz? It was bad. _Real_ bad.”

The snark and flip usually so present in his voice is indiscernible, and despite himself, Kravitz feels a chill shoot down his spine. “I’d never encourage an investigation if I felt like we were in over his head.”

“Y’know, you _say_ that, but I think you know damn well there are some bigger forces at work here.” Merle sets the amethyst lightly back on the mattress. “I don’t wanna scare you. That isn’t my—that’s not what I’m goin’ for, here. But I’m gonna tell you right now that Taako got real lucky with this one. He’s not gonna be able to take another hit like that.”

Kravitz’s mouth goes dry, and his next words shrivel and crumble in his mouth.

“He’s got a crazy amount of strain on his body,” Merle continues. “Kid’s a regular glass cannon as is, so if something like this happens again, I won’t lie t’you, Krav. His heart’s gonna give out. He’ll die.”

“That’s—” Constructing new words from the withered ends of old ones is almost too difficult, but Kravitz forces it. “You’re saying this—that psychic energy could kill him, that he could have a _heart attack_ , right? That’s—that’s just ridiculous. I’m sorry. No way.”

Merle regards him over the rims of his bifocals. “The heart’s a fragile instrument. You know that better than anybody.”

“This isn’t about me.”

“I’m just sayin’, if anybody gets it, it’s gonna be you.” He glances back at Taako, who’s shifted slightly, letting his head slip off the pillow. One of the jet stones wobbles and drops as he does so, and Merle picks it up and readjusts it precariously at Taako’s temple. “Whatever it is that blocked him, it pushed back pretty hard. Good thing is, you rarely ever encounter that much energy with that kinda force. This is an outlier for sure.”

That doesn’t really do much to make Kravitz feel better, because something being an outlier doesn’t denote impossibility. But he takes a deep breath and tries to condense the panic scattered throughout his body, making his knuckles whiten and his shoulders tense. Fear, irrationality—none of it will do anything worthwhile. “So how long will he…?”

“If I had to guess? Eight or so hours. He’s got a whole lot of bad energy to purge.” Merle stands, and out of something between courtesy and instinct, Kravitz stands as well. “Keep an eye on ’im, make sure those stones stay in place. You two got anything obsidian, by any chance?”

They do. A necklace and a pair of large, heavy earrings; one of their many gifts from grateful customers. “That stuff is real good for defending against powerful negative energy,” says Merle. “Put it in some sunlight, charge it up, have Taako wear it around on the job. That oughta deflect anything tryin’ to give ’im a knock. I _know_ you think it’s a little whimsical,” he adds, when Kravitz’s eyebrows start to creep upward. “But even if it’s all bullshit, better safe than sorry, right?”

And after the day they’ve had, Kravitz can’t argue with that.

He escorts Merle down the stairs and to the door, casting a cursory glance back up towards the landing at every other step. The morning is starting to wane, still golden and soft but turning pale with the promise of midday. Basking in the light underneath their tall, arching windows, Kravitz knows, are the letters. He shoves down the discomfort that rolls in his stomach like a restless sea and pulls the door open.

“Thank you,” he says. “For everything, really.”

Merle stares him down. He’s not what anyone would call _unassuming_ , what with his remarkably short stature and a thick, ungroomed beard that always seems to be threaded with fresh flowers or herbs. He’s also not what anyone would call _intimidating_ , especially given his peacekeeping tendencies, but with the way he’s looking at Kravitz right now, the label seems more than appropriate.

“Take care of him,” is all he says.

It feels less like a request and more like a challenge. Merle gives him a nod and closes the door behind him.

The rest of the day passes in a blur. Kravitz uses his gloves to pick up the letters and store them cautiously in an empty drawer, apart from the small cabinet they use for evidence in ongoing cases. He fixes himself a cup of tea and over-toasts another slice of bread and goes to sit with Taako in the bedroom, but the silence sticks to his skin like a cold sweat, and eventually it becomes unbearable. When he does venture downstairs, the grandfather clock strikes three, and it almost startles his cup out of its saucer. The day has slipped through his fingers without his notice, and he’s been left floundering in the late afternoon, disoriented and dizzy with the whiplash of the last two days.

Around three-fifteen, as he’s scraping blackened crumbs out of the toaster, the phone rings.

“Fairaway residence.”

 _“Kravitz.”_ The voice on the other end is deep and resonant, and unconsciously he straightens his posture and tugs at the hem of his shirt. _“I’m sorry to disrupt your Saturday.”_

“Not a problem, Miss Regent,” says Kravitz, struggling to dislodge his spatula from the toaster. It starts to bend dangerously, so he abandons the effort and turns his full attention on the receiver pressed to his cheek. “What can I do for you?”

A soft, static sigh filters through the speaker. _“We’re going to be short-staffed tomorrow, and the D.A. wants that autopsy report by Monday morning. You’ve earned yourself a weekend off, but I do have to ask—is there any way you’d be able to come in tomorrow?”_

“Ah—no.” It’s worse than a reflex; it’s practically a twitch, an involuntary convulsion that transforms precisely into the one word Kravitz hadn’t wanted to say. He can practically hear his employer sit back and arch an eyebrow, and it makes him want to curl up and burrow under their expensive rug for a decade. “I mean—I mean, um, my husband is laid up. It’s, uh, pretty bad, and I’ll need to stay home tomorrow and take care of him.”

 _“Hm. Well, I’m sorry to hear he’s feeling badly.”_ At the very least, she doesn’t sound like she’s going to cast him out of the office forever. _“Give him my regards.”_

“I _am_ sorry about this—”

She cuts him off with a quiet chuckle. _“The fault was mine for assuming you would have nothing better to do than come to work. I’ll see you on Monday.”_

“Uh, yes, right—” The phone clicks and cuts off into a dull hum, and Kravitz sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose as if it’s all his problems manifest. Raven Regent, state medical examiner and one of the most respected forensic leaders in the nation, has an utterly astounding amount of patience for him. He can’t tell what he’s done to earn the position of _favorite_ ; only that it consistently draws the ire of other employees. At least here, the benefits outweigh the costs.

He makes the simplest soup he can manage for dinner and narrowly saves it from burning, and as he settles back into his chair next to their bed and waits for it to cool, he reads the paper. Splashed across the front page is a flashy, sensationalized account of a daring bank heist and the following chase, and the details echo hollowly in Kravitz’s mind, like he’s read them before. He skims the other stories and sips at his soup until the light grows too dim for him to make out individual words, and then he gets up and turns on a small, orange light that illuminates the page and Taako’s sleeping face. His husband doesn’t stir, and his stillness is more haunting than it should be.

The night winds on, and the buildings outside their window start to blur into a mass of light and shadow. Kravitz doesn’t realize he’s falling asleep until the light on their nightstand breaks apart into a shifting prism of warmth and color, and then his limbs are too leaden for him to reach out and turn it off, or think any last thought before exhaustion catches him by the ankle and drags him down.

* * *

When Kravitz rouses, the room is bright, the bed is empty, and a woman is singing downstairs.

He shuffles blearily to the landing and peers down at the hallway. The familiar sound of something sizzling on the stove drifts from the kitchen entryway, and now he can make out the gramophone’s fuzzy crackling as it filters lazily from the living room.

 _“Let it go, dream a bit…”_ the woman drawls.

Kravitz takes the stairs slowly, one by one with his limbs dragging in the air like he’s moving through honey. He rounds the doorway, and there’s Taako, standing there in an apron with his hair up and poking at some eggs with a spatula. A chopping board heaped with diced tomato and onion sits next to him, and as Kravitz watches, Taako pinches a bit of onion between his fingers and scatters it over the pan. It responds with a loud _hiss_ , and he steps back and props his hands on his hips, as if taking a moment to appreciate his own finesse.

That gives him the peripheral he needs to spot Kravitz, then, still half-obscured behind the doorway, practically shrinking from the sun. Taako sets the spatula on the counter with a flourish and grins, and it’s so familiar and full of life that Kravitz can’t help but feel rather like he’s taken a locomotive to the chest. “The dead man wakes,” he says, crossing the distance between them, and links them with a kiss warmer than sunlight. “You were _out_ , babe. Like, I thought I was gonna wake you up, but, uh—but nope, you were one-hundo-percent down for the count.”

“You’re awake,” is all Kravitz can say.

Taako twirls the spatula in one hand. “Sure am. And I feel _fantastic_. Don’t tell Merle, it’ll go to his head.” He spins on his heel and returns to the stove, pushing at the egg and the tomato and onion floundering around in it. “What did he do? I kinda—kinda blacked out a little, not gonna lie.”

Kravitz’s stomach does an unceremonious flip. The truth is pushing at his throat and starting to burn through it, but he swallows it back and forces composure. There will be time to talk about exactly what happened, but he doesn’t want to scare Taako, and he doesn’t want to scare himself. “Your aura was pretty bad off. Merle did some contact healing, a bit of gemstone therapy, and I guess that was enough to get you back on your feet.”

“And better than ever,” his husband proclaims. “Yeah, I figured the gemstone thing, because I woke up with a fuckin’ am—an amethyst in my back. Does _not_ feel great, by the way. How long was I out? Twelve hours?”

“Longer,” says Kravitz, who’s suddenly realized he hasn’t the faintest idea as to when he fell asleep or, more importantly, when Taako woke up. “How long have you been…?”

Taako pulls his arms back into a luxurious stretch. “ ’Bout two, I think,” he says, clicking his tongue approvingly as the eggs start to darken. “You were all—all tuckered out, hangin’ out in that chair, so I just got up and came down here. Figured I’d do some cooking because, y’know, I hadn’t eaten for over twelve hours. There’s a bit of good ol’ fruit salad in the icebox, some ham-n-egg sandwiches, bacon… not for me, of course,” he adds, and wrinkles his nose. “Cocktails and toast for ch’boy.”

It’s all so perfectly mundane—right down to Taako starting meal prep at an ungodly hour. Kravitz feels rather like he’s walked into a dream, and he moves, dreamlike, as Taako ushers him over to their kitchen table and hands over a cup of coffee. “Drink up, handsome,” he lilts, and turns back to the stove. “We’ve got a big day ahead.”

“A big—what?” It’s Sunday, by Kravitz’s approximation, but he hasn’t quite managed to regain his grip on reality just yet. “Why?”

Taako’s spatula grates against the surface of the pan as he scrapes a heap of egg, tomato, and onion onto a plate. “The gala. Duh.”

“Taako, you’re _not_ going to that gala.”

He scoffs. “Come again? I know you didn’t just tell me what I’m gonna do. That’s—you don’t get to dictate that shit, Krav, sorry.”

The truth is starting to burn again, and Kravitz takes a deep breath and a sip of his coffee. As soon as he does, the world sharpens and brightens, and he can finally shove off some the exhaustion folded around him. “I… I know. I’m sorry, I don’t get to decide that. But just a few hours ago you were unconscious and ill, and I just don’t want to risk anything—”

Taako sets down their plates a little harder than necessary. “Risk _what_?” he says, deftly untying his apron and slinging it over the back of his chair. “I already told you, I’m fine. If I was any more fine I’d be—I’d be high, for God’s sake. Don’t you trust me?”

Despite himself, Kravitz flinches like he’s been struck. In a way, he supposes, he has. “Of course I do.”

“Then put your money where your mouth is, my man.” Taako spears a bit of egg on the end of his fork and takes a bite. A brief but heavy silence falls over the breakfast table.

After a matter of moments, he says, “You’re still coming, aren’t you?”

Kravitz swallows another sip of coffee. The answer is _yes_ , despite his every hesitation—that’s never stopped Taako or him before. “Of course.”

“Yeah, okay, uh, good. Good.” Taako plucks a slice of strawberry from his glass and deflects his gaze out the window, where the sunlight wavers across their neighbors’ windows, paralyzed between tall panes of glass. “That’s what I thought.”

* * *

_Ordeal_ is not a word Kravitz likes to use lightly.

For one, it’s far too easily applicable to the work they do. Interrupting a demon summons is an _ordeal_. Tracking supernatural cult activity through the streets of Manhattan is an _ordeal_. Trying to persuade the rattled operator to connect them to a possessed young woman with an abnormally deep voice is an _ordeal_. There are plenty of things in their shared life susceptible to that label, and as with other words, like _strange_ or _otherworldly_ , he prefers to reserve it for the right occasions.

That being said: Preparing for the gala is an ordeal.

For one, Kravitz’s cufflinks are broken. He’d made a note to himself to repair them just the other day, but the other day seems hundreds of thousands of years away, now. So he’s forced to delve into one of their storage closets, pushing past half-melted candles and chalk to get to the sewing kit at the very back. His fingers leave imprints in the dust, and when he digs out a needle, it sticks shallowly in his skin and makes him swear and stumble back. As he does, his shoulder rattles the shelf above him and knocks a jar of talcum powder loose, and it spills down the right side of Kravitz’s suit. It isn’t exactly the most auspicious start to a high-stakes evening.

Once the cufflinks are repaired and the powder dusted off as best as he can manage, there’s the matter of Taako’s shoes. He sits on the floor of their bedroom, a glittery silver heel in one hand and a white satin one in the other, and surveys them both like they’ve offended him.

“Silver looks better with dark purple,” he says. “Doesn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” says Kravitz, distractedly. He’s taken to digging through their armoire for a tie that matches the dress’s specific shade, and although one would think color is an easy thing to find in a sea of grey and black, it’s proving to be more difficult than expected. “Does it matter?”

“Does it—Kravitz, are you even _listening_ to me?”

A dark grey tie goes sailing over Kravitz’s shoulder, and so does the last of his patience. “It’s _your_ decision,” he snaps. “Just make one and get on with it, _please_.”

Taako falls silent, and the effect is instantaneous. If not for their lamps, Kravitz is sure, the room would have noticeably darkened. “Fine,” he says, finally. “The—the silver ones are flashier anyway. Not that you’d care, I guess.”

Just like that, suddenly enough to give him whiplash, Kravitz’s frustration dissolves, replaced by an icy guilt that pricks at his chest. “Taako,” he says, and then, “Taako, I’m sorry, I—”

“Don’t fuckin’ apologize,” says Taako. He still has his back turned, and one thumb scrapes over the edge of the silver shoe’s heel as he stares into space. “If you’re pissed, just—you gotta own it, okay? I knew somethin’ was up, anyway. You’ve been acting weird ever since you woke up.”

Kravitz sputters. “ _I’ve_ been acting weird? You’re acting like nothing happened! I know you when you’re manic, this is—”

“I—I’m not fucking _manic_ , what the hell are you talking about? I’m fine! You’re just looking for reasons to keep me home from this thing!”

“I don’t need to look for reasons if they’re right there!” The ties are abandoned, tangled and in disarray, hanging over the edges of the drawer. “Let’s say for argument’s sake that you really are fine. You still need time to recover. Whatever this case is, it’s not worth your—”

Taako’s thumb freezes where it rakes over the heel. “My what?”

Kravitz can’t muster a response. It would take a year, he’s sure, just to call the words to mind.

When no reply comes, Taako turns around, lips parted like he’s prepared to repeat himself. Instead, he stops short and takes in Kravitz and the shirt that is decidedly more grey than black, now. “Did it fuckin’ snow?”

“Wh—oh. I spilled talcum powder on myself. We really need to clear out that closet downstairs.”

Taako blinks. A snicker breaks through his impassive façade, and he swears and claps a hand over his mouth. “Sorry. It’s—it’s not funny.”

Kravitz shoots a despairing glance at his shirt. “It is a little funny.”

“Actually,” his husband says, “it’s fuckin’ hilarious.” And he starts giggling, heel dangling loosely in one hand as his shoulders shake. Kravitz’s mouth twitches, and then they’re both laughing a little helplessly because amusement is quite possibly the only emotion they haven’t cycled through in the last twenty-four hours, and it’s well about time. It barely lasts a minute, but they both struggle to catch their breath. A layer of talcum powder drifts dolefully to the carpet.

“So,” Taako manages, at last. “I think we’re gonna have to put this up there for—for most _batshit_ weekend ever.”

“You slept through most of it,” says Kravitz, blinking a few premature tears out of his eyes.

“So?” He sets the heel next to its other half and flops backward onto the carpet. “Look, whatever—something happened while I was out. I’m not stupid. If you don’t wanna tell me right now, fine, whatever, take your time. But next time, just—just _say_ you need some time instead of straight up lying to me.”

Kravitz winces. “I didn’t _lie_.”

“I mean, you didn’t tell the truth, so I, uh, I dunno what else to call it.” Taako folds his hands behind his head and says, “Doesn’t matter. You’ll tell me when you feel like it. But for the record, I really am fine.”

A stray tie slips off the drawer and drops to the floor. Kravitz looks back on a reflex, and there it is: a shock of purple lying next to the nightstand.

“I believe you,” he says.

“No, you don’t. But you will.” With a rasping sigh, Taako pushes himself up and snatches the silver heels off the floor. “Dibs on the bathroom.”

“So that leaves me, what, five minutes?”

Taako is already halfway across the room. “Fuck off, gorgeous! Dibs are legally binding, nothing I can do about it!”

The door closes behind abruptly behind him.

Kravitz is left standing with a purple tie in his hand, half-covered in talcum powder, still a little breathless with laughter. He feels somewhere between an advertisement for an absolutely bizarre perfume and the hapless protagonist of an unresolved serial, and he’s not sure which he prefers. Being in a serial would mean the revelation is almost at hand; the grand reveal that changes the narrative forever. His fingers twitch with the urge to flip the pages and find out before the moment comes.

Taako doesn’t know that the stakes are higher than ever, but Kravitz has the feeling the knowledge wouldn’t change a thing. Death is always a possibility for them. It’s a shadowy potential future they confront at least once in every investigation, and every time, they emerge none the worse for wear. If he does tell Taako, the most he’ll get in return is a semi-sincere assurance for having agitated his paranoia. They’ll take their normal precautions, along with a few buffers for safety’s sake. This case will be no different.

 _It_ is _different_ , whispers a voice at the back of Kravitz’s mind. _It’s different and it’s wrong, wrong, wrong._

He ignores it, because he’s had quite enough of disembodied forces for one day, and begins the hunt for a new shirt.

Commandeering the bathroom is not an easy feat, but eventually Kravitz does manage it. He’s just finished tying up his dreads as Taako comes traipsing back up the stairs, face contoured and aglow with a shiny substance that he insists isn’t toxic in the least. “So,” he says, plucking his dress out of the open closet. “Mags is on for driving us there.”

Kravitz arches an eyebrow. “Magnus or Julia?”

“Well—Julia. He’s comin’ with.” Taako swings around the edge of the doorway and gives an appreciative whistle. “ _Wow_. Remind me to send Ren a—a gift basket, or something. That looks _amazing_.”

The suit does, Kravitz has to admit, look pretty amazing. The jacket is perfectly fitted to his dimensions, and even under their bathroom’s harsh light, its subtle iridescence shimmers across his shoulders. It’s unlike anything he’s ever owned and given the past few days they’ve had, he’s decided it’s more than appropriate. “It’ll get people’s attention,” he says. “I don’t know if that’s what we want, exactly, but I guess that’s how things shake out.”

“Oh, shit, that reminds me.” Taako disappears again, followed by rustling as he presumably slips the dress off its hanger. “We got an attack plan for this shindig? Wander around ’til we see somebody suspicious, or…?”

The _attack plan_ hasn’t exactly been at the forefront of Kravitz’s mind, but after countless cases and spur-of-the-moment strategies, he’s learned to work at it automatically. “We seem to think it’s someone high-profile, and if they are, they’ll want to approach us covertly. Which means we definitely shouldn’t be looking for them.”

Taako hums in agreement. “Don’t wanna scare ’em off, right.” He breaks off as more rustling sounds from the bedroom, and Kravitz puts the finishing touches on his highlight (also chemically ambiguous, also steadfastly ignored). Outside, the afternoon light is starting to wilt into evening, and sunlight strains across the carpet and breaks off into prisms when they reach Taako’s heels.

Kravitz sees him, then, emerging back from behind the door and into his field of view. His husband is radiant, of course. The dress hangs delicately off his frame, deep and vivid against the glittery slope of his neckline. When he catches Kravitz staring—because Kravitz is only human, truly, and Taako is beautiful in any iteration—he grins and flips a gauzy bit of fabric over one shoulder. “Like whatcha see? It doesn’t look half bad, right?”

It’s only a considerable amount of practice that saves Kravitz from being rendered speechless. Thankfully, he’s learned to actually respond to Taako’s preening instead of replying with a strangled gasp. “I don’t think you’re in the same universe as _bad_ , darling.”

“Shut up,” Taako mumbles, and slides a bracelet studded with rhinestones onto his wrist. A flash of light bounces off the stones and ricochets off the mirror, and Merle’s words come back to Kravitz with a start. The obsidian necklace is sitting on the windowsill, soaking up the fading light. It’s far too large and gaudy to compliment the dress’s tasteful flair; as are the earrings, two polished rocks encased in ornate silver. The client who’d given it to them had actually managed to overestimate their taste for luxury.

There isn’t a chance in Heaven that Kravitz is getting Taako to wear the necklace of his own accord. So he brushes off any peripheral cajoling and says, “Merle mentioned it would be smart for you to have some kind of protection for this thing. He thought obsidian might help, uh… ward off any bad energies.”

He can practically hear Taako’s smirk from across the room. “I ever tell you how—how hilarious you sound when you talk about gemstone shit?”

“ _Please_. I’m serious.”

Somewhere in the background of his reflection, he can make out Taako’s silhouette shrugging. “Fine. I’ll bring somethin’ obsidian in my purse, or whatever. No big.”

There’s a distinct flip to his voice that makes it clear Taako still isn’t quite grasping the gravity of the situation—or refusing to do so, which is more evidence for Kravitz’s insistence that something really is wrong. He sets it aside for a future, undeniably choppy conversation, because tonight isn’t about the emotional technicalities of dealing with a dark psychic force. “He was talking like you needed to wear it, somehow. Besides, what if you put your purse down? It won’t be able to help you then.”

“ _Jeez_ ,” says Taako, through a sigh. “Fine. What do you suggest? Because—’cause ch’boy ain’t fuckin’ with this aesthetic.”

Kravitz swivels and comes to to the doorway, regarding him thoughtfully. Taako’s hair hangs loose around his shoulders, long and glossy, catching in the glitter at his neckline. “Are you wearing that down?”

“I was gonna do, like, an updo or somethin’. Why?”

“You could do a braid,” he says. “Weave the necklace in.”

Taako raises an eyebrow. “What—oh, the obsidian one? I _guess_. It’s silver, at least. Is that why that thing’s been lying around?” He jerks a thumb in the direction of the windowsill, where the necklace sits dutifully. Apparently his powers of observation are more acute than Kravitz expected.

Before he can offer up a reply, however, Taako continues. “You’re gonna have to help me, then,” he says, snatching the necklace up and plopping down on their bed. His dress refracts and shines as he holds it in Kravitz’s direction. “It’s gonna be a trip trying to get this thing in by myself.”

They have a few minutes at the very least before Magnus and Julia arrive, and Kravitz’s ensemble is mostly completed, anyway. He selects a couple rings to finish off the look—besides the one already on his finger, of course—and sits behind Taako on the bed, gathering thick locks of hair into his hands. Separating them out is practically a reflex, and he runs his fingers through the strands, working out any minute tangles. To his credit, Taako is just as expert about it; he keeps his head still and holds the necklace in precisely the right place. They’ve done this many a time together, even though when it comes to the average braid, Taako is more than able to do it himself. He’d been wearing his hair in a crown braid the day they met, and he’d looked so regal. Above it all, Kravitz had thought; including the things he’d been accused of.

He starts to weave, twisting Taako’s hair into itself and around the necklace, which glints enticingly under the sunset’s hazy glow. Taako is unnervingly silent in the moments before he says, “What if I wasn’t okay?”

Kravitz’s heart jumps a little in his chest, but he keeps his fingers steady. “Then we’d deal with that. Just like we do with everything.”

Taako’s quiet exhale is palpable under his hands. “Okay,” he says, and goes quiet again. For once, Kravitz is sure, it’s not because he’s cut himself short, but because he is content. In the moment, it’s more than either of them can ask for.

Together, they put the finishing touches on the braid, and then the doorbell rings as suddenly and serendipitously as if it were planned. As one, Taako and Kravitz gather up their things and make for the door without another word. It’s one of the first iotas of normalcy in recent memory: their synchronicity, present and effortless. Things are not alright, of course; a massive preternatural threat and a mysterious gala are hardly ideal conditions, but the anchor of familiarity may be all they need to get through this case.

Whatever the case is. He’s been referring to everything so far as such, but every so often Kravitz remembers they don’t have the faintest idea as to what awaits them.

It’s unnerving, to say the least.

Taako throws open the door, and Magnus Burnsides beams broadly at them. He has one of the friendliest, most natural demeanors of anyone Kravitz has ever met, and he’s almost unfailingly kind, except if the person in question is threatening someone he cares about. Kravitz has seen the man lift a small pickpocket over his head completely spur-of-the moment. “Hey, what’s up? You guys look fancy as _fuck_!”

It’s very clearly the right thing to say, because Taako preens as he sidesteps Magnus and takes the steps one by one. “Thank you, my man,” he says over his shoulder. “We try.”

Magnus grins back at him, then grips Kravitz’s hand in a firm handshake. “How’s it goin’?” he says, maneuvering them both headlong toward the stairs. “How’s married life?”

He asks the kind of questions that would sound superficial coming from everyone else. It’s a talent, Kravitz supposes; either that or born-and-bred sincerity. “Fantastic,” he says, and cringes inwardly, because his responses never sound as genuine as they should against Magnus’s enthusiasm. “How’s the business?”

“Oh, _man_. It’s great. Julia ’n I are real happy—oh! And we adopted another dog. His name is Fisher, and he’s _tiny_ but the vet says he’s gonna grow to be super big, and…”

Magnus’s chatter trails Kravitz into the car, where Taako is already situated and chatting with the driver. She turns around and smiles an equally radiant smile at the two of them as Kravitz pulls the door shut, then shoots a side glance at Magnus. “Are you talkin’ their ears off about the dogs again?”

“The _new_ dog,” says Magnus, placating. “Kravitz asked.”

“Did he, now?” Julia Burnsides has the booming voice and sturdy build of an unquestionably intimidating woman, but like her husband, she has a compassion about her that makes her more approachable than most. She throws the car into gear and says, “Kravitz, did you ask about the new dog?”

“I mean, I—”

Julia chuckles, and the car pulls away from the curb. “It’s all he’s been able to talk about, anyway. You’re gonna hear about ’im whether you like it or not.”

Magnus’s eyes light up, and he practically leans over the back of the seat as he launches excitedly into a play-by-play of adoption day. Taako releases an exaggerated sigh and reclines, feigning boredom, but Kravitz notes that his eyes never wander. They’ve been friends almost as long as Taako and Merle while somehow managing to be different in almost every way, and their closeness isn’t just due to Magnus’s ability to make friends with everyone. He’d given Kravitz his first and only shovel talk after the engagement, if threats followed by reassurances could be considered a shovel talk. “If you hurt Taako,” he’d said, “I’ll make you hurt worse, I promise. Like—don’t get me wrong, you seem like a great guy and I think you’ll make him really happy, so I don’t _wanna_ fuck you up, or anything. But I will if I gotta. Y’know?”

As near as Kravitz can tell, Magnus is an orphan like himself and Taako, raised by his wife’s father until his untimely death. He’s strikingly kind for someone the world should have jaded and, as his prattling is eager to prove, would gladly stand at the wrong end of a pistol for a dog.

“And my little wooden ducks?” he’s saying. “Fisher _loves_ ’em! He’s got, like, ten of them so far. I’m gonna make more when I’m not working. He’s so cute… he curls up in his bed with them, and…”

The car hangs a right, and Kravitz’s gaze drifts to the window. New York passes outside in a blur of life and gold-tinged sunset, and as he watches it go by, an anticipatory chill settles in the pit of his stomach. The world outside is warm but anxiety is cold, sharp and merciless, reminding him that they could be walking into any number of disastrous situations. A trap, for instance, or a psychic ambush of catastrophic proportions. They’ve saved the city a surprising number of times and kept the public none the wiser, and now Kravitz realizes that if they were to die, it would be the same. Most people would be none the wiser, he thinks. They wouldn’t even be missed.

Taako’s hand finds his. Kravitz stiffens in surprise, and his husband squeezes gently, catching his eye from across the backseat.

 _It’s okay_ , he mouths.

And Julia must have glimpsed it in the rearview mirror, because she smiles.

* * *

They pull up as the sun is starting to dip below the horizon, and its light tangles in the peaks of the mansion in front of them and turns it into a crown tipped with diamonds. Kravitz has never seen a place quite like it; so perfectly secluded from the city, so humbly dramatic in its design. He notes the house’s blue body and silver embellishments as he helps Taako from the car, and then they both stand in front of the behemoth, struck just a little dumb with awe. Behind them, Julia taps the horn. “We’re taking off!” she calls. “Ring us when you need a pickup, alright?”

The long line of cars behind her grumble and honk, and she winds down the window and waves a hand at them. “Take it easy, folks! Be safe, boys, alright? Don’t do anything stupid.”

“And if you do, you gotta tell us all about it!” Magnus adds, and Julia’s car roars away. Another pulls up to settle irritably in her place, and Kravitz has to pull Taako by the elbow to move them out of the way of an elegantly dressed woman with earrings that hang to her shoulders. None of the other guests ascending the wide, polished stairs seem to find anything remarkable about the sprawling gardens, or the well-kept circle drive, or the monstrous silhouette of the mansion in front of them. Heirs and heiresses, Kravitz guesses. Or business magnates—the kinds of people accustomed to places like this.

He’s never seen somewhere so beautiful in his life. It’s as if they’ve crossed innocently over into another world, freed from New York City’s smoky skyline and crowded streets.

“Well,” says Taako, and loops his arm through Kravitz’s. “Shall we?”

They show the invitation, cautiously extracted from its drawer, to a stoic man standing at the door. If anything, the foyer is more grandiose than the front of the house. Kravitz almost trips on Taako’s heel as he cranes his neck to look at the ceiling, arching over his head and dripping with silver. They cross the threshold in a crowd of finely dressed socialites, all preening and chattering like a flock of exotic birds, and emerge at the top of an enormous staircase, and that’s when the main attraction becomes apparent. The ballroom in front of them looks like something out of a fiction. Women’s heels click on the gilded stair as they make their way down to the main floor, illuminated by a set of crystal chandeliers and ringed with wide, tall windows. Towards the back of the ballroom, tables cluster in a cordoned-off area, and a band plays a modern, upbeat tune to accompany the guests’ descent. Several of them seem to be preoccupied with the ballroom’s true marvel: a gigantic, transparent dome sitting at the center of the ceiling. The sky overhead is noticeably darker, and a few stars are visible through its glassy surface.

“Hachi _machi_ ,” Taako breathes, and Kravitz realizes they’re still standing at the balcony, almost embarrassingly enraptured. “Now _this_ is how you live.”

He tugs at Kravitz, who lets himself be pulled down the stairs and to the floor. Beneath the staircase is a small alcove where a bartender is serving drinks, and several attendees are already out on the floor, swaying lazily to the rhythm. The entire scene is still feeling a little dreamlike when Taako unwinds himself from Kravitz and eyes the bar ruefully.

“That _no drinking on the job_ rule we have?” he says. “I’ve actually—like, I’ve _legit_ never hated it this much before.”

Kravitz could use a drink, himself. Scorching his throat with a bit of dry scotch might be exactly what he needs to make this place seem a little more real. Instead, he takes a breath, grounds himself in the moment, and holds a hand out to Taako. “May I have this dance, Mr. Fairaway? Whoever’s going to contact us will have a much subtler time of it if we’re not standing off by ourselves.”

“Oh, you romantic,” Taako drawls, but he accepts Kravitz’s hand anyway. They stride out onto the floor, where more couples are already materializing, and slip into a languid pace against the music. A banner hangs imperiously behind them, proclaiming the _Balancer_ ’s fiftieth anniversary and thanking the newspaper’s many generous donors. Two men in expensive-looking suits are having their picture taken in front of it.

They easily sidestep a fumbling older couple, and Kravitz says, “This place is unreal.”

“ _Unreal_ is putting it lightly, my man.” Taako matches his steps with faux effortlessness; he’s putting less work into dancing and more into making it look easy. “I mean—house like this, super well hidden, crazy luxurious… it’s a little—like, it’s—”

“Cultish?”

“Cultish.” They sweep past a cluster of people with wineglasses, all huddling together and speaking in low voices. “I’m not crazy, right?”

“Definitely not crazy,” Kravitz agrees. They’ve seen their fair share of pretty facades for insidious underworld organizations, and as far as the superficial goes, this place does seem to fit the bill. “They’ve got more money than they let on, anyway.”

The _Balancer_ offices are a set of floors situated in one of the city’s humbler towers. The better part of their employ could probably set up shop in the ballroom alone. “Somebody’s got their priorities skewed,” Taako murmurs, and steps headlong into a young man in uniform.

The man jumps and turns to look at them with eyes as wide as china plates. His hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail, and he’s fumbling a piece of parchment in a gesture rent with anxiety, but he lights up as soon as he lays eyes on them. “Hey!” he says, beaming. “You’re them! Kravitz ’n Taako, right?”

Taako pulls a pen from his purse and twirls it between his fingers. “Autographs are five bucks, my dude.”

“Wh—oh, no, no.” He rocks back on his heels. “I’m Avi? I work for the higher-ups? The Director’s really hopin’ to talk to you now. Before all the festivities really get going, y’know.”

Kravitz’s gaze snaps to Taako, who shrugs. “The Director?”

“Editor in chief,” says Avi. “The big cheese.” He grins a little dazedly at his own quip, and Kravitz can make out a distinctly alcoholic shine over his eyes—as if the flask-shaped bulge at his breast hadn’t already given him away. “She’s super excited to meet you guys, gotta say. So, uh… you comin’?”

It doesn’t even take a glance passed between them for Kravitz and Taako to decide on an answer. “You know it,” the latter says. “So, uh… she’s the one who dropped us a line, huh?”

Avi pivots and gestures for them to follow him through the crowd. “Yep!” comes his over-the-shoulder reply. He’s being surprisingly conspicuous for how exposed they are, but to his credit, most of the couples look too absorbed in each other to pay them any mind. “She heard you two were the real deal. Best of the best, right? And this stuff, uh… I mean, no spoilers, but we’re not takin’ this lightly. Definitely one for the experts. You get it.”

He leads them around a corner and suddenly the music is muffled, as if it’s coming from another room entirely. An ornate elevator stands at the end of a long corridor, and Avi walks right up to it, sliding a key out of his jacket. He slides the gate aside and gestures them through. “Right this way, please.”

Taako looks at Kravitz and mouths something like _cultish_ as they step inside. That does not, of course, excuse the fact that they follow Avi without question, but the sentiment is there nonetheless.

The elevator lifts off the ground with a faint rattling and begins the ascent. Kravitz’s hand finds Taako’s, and he laces their fingers together, feeling Taako’s wedding ring dig into the ridge of his knuckle.

A reminder: His husband’s life is one of the few things he won’t gamble on.

Their climb only lasts a matter of seconds before they rumble to a halt once again, and Avi shoots them what is probably supposed to be a reassuring smile. “Here we go,” he says, and his eyes flick to Taako and Kravitz’s interlocked hands. “No big, guys. Thanks for comin’ by.”

They step through the gate, which might have been something poetic if either of them were paying attention. And there’s the Director. She could be no one else, of course; for one because the room is empty save for her, but for another because she _radiates_ authority. It bleeds outward from her imposing frame—she can’t be much taller than Taako, but the staff gripped in her left hand adds a good meter or so to both the extent of her reach and her intimidation factor. A shock of pale hair stands out against her dark, weathered face, which contorts in recognition as she turns to face them. Somewhere in Kravitz’s periphery, the elevator disappears from view.

“Well,” says the Director. “Kravitz and Taako, I presume.”

The room is sparsely furnished, but she gestures to two chairs sitting in front of a long, mahogany desk. Remnants of the building’s exquisite decor are everywhere, climbing up the walls and spreading across the ceiling like a network of veins. “Take a seat,” she says. “Please?”

They do, of course. Answers come in many different forms but sometimes they’re hiding in plain sight, sitting clearly at eye level, across from them and behind a desk. The Director’s long gown drags on the floor as she sits down; her attire is practically an extension of the building itself, with the spidery silver embellishments trapped against her chest and wrists, and the different shades of blue that mingle in her ensemble. She looks from Taako to Kravitz, who is feeling far calmer in the moment than he’d expected, and says, “I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve asked you here.”

“Yeah,” says Taako, unflinchingly. “No fucking kidding.”

She cracks a smile, which is strange to see from a woman who looks, by all accounts, like she prefers not to do so. “I’ve been pretty cryptic about all of this. And I know you two took a risk by being here, but I want to explain all of it to you right here, right now. You deserve that much.”

The Director takes a breath. Her left hand flexes around the staff as she says, “There’s a dark force in New York. And just—just bear with me, here, because I _know_ that’s about as vague as I could possibly be, but that’s… that’s really the best way I can describe it, honestly. It’s like an evil, if that’s an actual thing that exists in the world. It—”

“We’ve encountered it,” Kravitz blurts.

She turns her gaze on him, and he’s reminded strikingly of Raven and her ability to back him into a corner with a single look. “Are you sure?”

“I got thrown into a coffee table,” says Taako, flatly. “I’m, uh—I’m pretty sure we know an evil force when we get got by it.”

Despite the flip in his voice, the Director sobers even further. “I’m sorry that happened,” she says. “But that wasn’t… _it_. It was a fragment, if I had to guess. If the true thing had really confronted you, well—you probably wouldn’t be here right now.”

“Shit, thanks for the vote of confidence.” Taako’s voice is starting to take on a significant waver, which means he’s more than affronted; he’s unnerved. “But—but here’s the thing, boss lady. That _force_ , whatever—that came from _your shit_. Your letter. Those—those impressions were _yours_. How d’you explain that, huh?”

“You did a—?” The Director presses her hands to her temples, as if trying to compress an outburst, and takes a deep breath. “No. No. Doesn’t matter. I can’t give you the details right now, but I just—I _promise_ you that wasn’t me. Your involvement must have provoked it. I’d never, ever send something like that to anyone, not even to get their attention. I—I kinda figured the money would do that, honestly.”

Kravitz puts a hand on Taako’s knee before he can respond and says, “So this force is what you contacted us about. You want us to… to, what, hunt it down?”

The Director flinches at the very suggestion. “No. I wouldn’t ask either of you to do that. I know your talents, and I know you’re equipped to deal with these things, but this… this is something you can’t face head-on. It’s going to take some unconventional tactics, and… I mean, I didn’t want to assume, but that seemed like something you two specialize in.”

She’s not wrong, Kravitz will admit. For one, they’re considerably more hands-on than their fellows, who tend to favor intangible séances and the lighting of multiple candles to reach out to the ether. “So how do you know this force… I mean, we’re not doubting you, obviously. We know something’s out there. But how did you… how does the editor-in-chief of a, uh, newspaper find out about something like this?”

This time the Director’s smile is a different one. “I’ll tell you everything relevant that I know. If you do want to take the case, there is more money involved. But you’re going to have to trust me when I say there are some things I can’t disclose. It’s for your safety. Nothing else.”

Next to him, Taako relaxes a hair. The mention of payment lowers his hackles, as it often does. “So then tell us what we gotta know. Then we’ll tell you whether or not we’re walking away.”

He’s bluffing.

Which Kravitz knows because not only is Taako an awful liar, if his excitement was any more obvious he would be hopping up and down in his seat. The prospect of danger is nowhere near appealing, of course, but the prospect of fame and fortune—or fortune, at the very least—is enough to sell him on the case before he has the details. There won’t be any talking him down from this ledge. He’s already made up his mind, and if Kravitz is being honest with himself, he has, too.

“This thing,” says the Director, “it’s not a ghost or a demon or anything like that. The best way I can describe it is that it feeds off psychic energy. If people with your gift—” she gestures to Taako—“reach out through space and time to get impressions and premonitions, it wants to devour those rifts. Sever the bond between the astral and the material plane, basically. Except those two planes have a fragile and absolutely critical connection, and if it snaps, it… well, shit’s going to break very bad, very fast.”

Taako arches an eyebrow. “And you—you’d know this because you’re such an expert, right?”

She returns his stare unbroken. “As a matter of fact, I am. I mentioned that this force has fragments and right now, that’s the only way it can be fought. It’s manifested in different ways throughout the city, and I’ve tried my best to track it, but there’s nothing I can do to keep it under control. That’s why I turned to you. If you can find these fragments and eliminate them, it should weaken this thing enough to keep it from interfering with our world. It should move on.”

Kravitz’s head is starting to spin, which he can usually attribute to one too many glasses of champagne. Tonight, unfortunately, it’s anything but. Taako isn’t the only one regretting their policy on drinking—anything to make this case a little easier to swallow. “What would the force do, exactly?”

“Ever heard the expression ‘the fabric of reality’?” The Director drums her nails against the desk. “This thing is a seam ripper.”

Silence falls over the room like a shroud. She gets to her feet and says, “If you do choose to accept, I can guide you in the right direction. I need to go speak to my guests, but, um… feel free to stay here and talk about it, if you want. And, ah… thank you. For everything, uh—regardless of what you choose.”

The Director maneuvers around them and prods a tiny button next to the elevator shaft. In a matter of seconds, it appears, with Avi and his key in tow. He waves at Kravitz and Taako, who turn to watch her go as if drawn by a magnetic force, and pulls a crank off to the side. The elevator begins its descent once again. The Director’s haunted eyes hold their twin stares until she disappears from view. Then they’re alone.

“We’re doing this,” says Taako, at the same time Kravitz says, “We have to.”

“Well, good.” His husband slumps in his chair with a shaky laugh. “I wasn’t, uh—wasn’t really feelin’ a debate tonight.”

The truth is doing more than burn, now—it’s raging and scalding the back of Kravitz’s throat and straining to break free. But like the stars, the time and place need to be in perfect alignment and these circumstances couldn’t possibly be worse. “We’ll have to take every precaution,” he says. “And I mean it, this time. If a _fragment_ of this thing is all it takes to drain you…”

“Kravitz.” Taako sits up straight and reaches out, laying a hand over his. He looks uncharacteristically serious as he says, “I know—I know we’re in some deep shit. I’ll be careful.”

And that’s all it takes, really. He’s never been quick to trust, but there’s something about Taako that makes his promises infallible. They’re enough to make anyone brave enough to take the leap: _I’m not guilty. You’re not crazy. I’ll be careful._

_I love you._

“Alright, then,” says Kravitz, and takes Taako’s hand in his. “Geronimo.”

**Author's Note:**

> exactly how am i going to continue this? we just don't know. but it _will_ be continued. i've fallen too deeply in love with the setting and the plot of this ridiculous fic to leave it where it is.
> 
> anyway, if you did make it to the end, congratulations! you just read 19.5k words. that's a lot of words, my dude. mad respect.
> 
> thanks for reading and, as always, indulging me in whatever on earth this was!
> 
> follow me on tumblr @lichlesbian and on twitter @stellarlesbian!


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